


This Auspicious Day

by arianrhod



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arianrhod/pseuds/arianrhod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no thing which would come between brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Auspicious Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acaramelmacchiato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/gifts).



“On this his twenty-second birthday, we do celebrate his courage and strength in battle. We honor his defense of Ithilien in the Seventh Company and his valor at Osgiliath after the fall of Captain Hurith. In recognition of his honest and faithful service to the Tower of the Guard and the Seat of the Steward of Gondor, we do bestow the Sword of Stewards named kano dagor, Commander of Battles, and so invest him as Second to Captain Brulond at Osgiliath and invest in him the title of Lord of Emyn Arnen. Long may he, most beloved son, live as a thorn to the Shadow of the West!”

Faramir’s face felt red and flushed and he flexed his hand over the hilt of his sword. Humble it may be, no Command of Battles, but when his brother tilted his neck up in order to accept kano dagor as well as the titles and honor therein, Faramir couldn’t help but grin in response to Boromir’s grin when they caught eyes, unwilling to resist feeling his brother’s joy as his own.

*

“Faramir.”

Guard. Faramir didn’t drop his stance when Boromir called his name from the doorway. The blade remained still, ready.

“Faramir.” Boromir’s voice had an edge only his brother could hear, a single brief note of pleading. Faramir lowered his blade slowly.

“Brother.” Faramir turned slowly and saluted, smiling for Boromir’s benefit. “Captain.”

“Brother, it was not meant as a slight to you.” Now that Boromir had Faramir’s attention, he could say with eyes and posture what he could not say, what Denethor would not. You are not least beloved.

“Of course not; you are the oldest, you have proven yourself many times over. It is a princely gift,” Faramir replied, sheathing his own sword and holding out his hand to Boromir. Without a word, Boromir placed the worn leather sheath into his hand. Pommel weight, hilt, and cross-guard had as little ornamentation as the Seat of Stewards itself, made for the same purpose--keep, hold, defend. Faramir drew it gently. The length of the blade gleamed as the weapon came free in his hand, almost dancing.

“I am happy for you, truly,” Faramir said. “This is a great weapon, for a Captain of the Guard whom I would follow into battle.” Quickly he sheathed the agile blade and handed it back to Boromir who was--it was quite clear to Faramir--fighting for words through a number of conflicting emotions.

“I am not Captain yet,” he said at last.

“Father will see to it within a few years, I am sure.” Faramir smiled again, hoping to encourage Boromir to be happy for himself despite the fact that his noble heart, the one which Faramir knew as well as his own, would be rankled over the barb his father had still managed to hook into both of them. Most beloved son. “It’s time for my present, anyway,” Faramir said, pushing a distracted Boromir out the door, fumbling to buckle on his sword.

*

“His name is Hathel. No kano dagor, but a fine horse. Fit for a Captain’s Second, I hope.”

Boromir let out a bark of laughter. “A humble gift from the Commander of the Second River Guard! At last, proper respect from my greenhorn kinsman!” His face contradicted the sarcastic bite, open with admiration as hands found and approved of the fit stallion. “Brother, he is out of Rohan!”

“While I know little of horseflesh, I thought only of my Lord’s safety and wished to prepare him completely, nay utterly, for his unspeakable victory on the battlefield.” Faramir sketched a fake and entirely too elaborate bow before he moved to Hathel’s head, where his brother was gazing as if love-lorn into the horse’s eyes.

“Hathel?” Boromir said, still laughing but more quietly this time. “You named a horse ‘Broadsword’?”

“It was merely a testament to my Captain’s intelligence and wit. I recall you had a sword named ‘Hathel” once, a mightly weapon that bruised the shins of many a Tower Guard.” Faramir handed Boromir a few of the apples he’d sniped from the kitchen. Boromir chuckled and fed the apples dutifully to Hathel.

This game of false humility Faramir and Boromir played was one of their best masks. While their father would not tolerate his sons’ easy friendship--did everything he could to poison it--he understood the humor of false pretenses even less, so much the better.

As if the thought had flown to Minas Morgul and conjured the Witch-King himself, Denethor appeared just as Boromir was adjusting his tack to Hathel. Boromir straightened to attention with ease; Faramir stepped backwards out of habit.

Denethor’s eyes skipped over both the beast and his second son. “Boromir! I have one last gift for you, before you ride out.”

“Yes, father.” Boromir replied evenly. As Denethor beckoned, he stepped forward again and Denethor held out his right hand. The gold signet ring of the Stewards hung there heavily.

“As a promise, Boromir, to serve the Stewards and your father in all things and to take your place among us when called.” Denethor slid the ring from his finger and held it out for Boromir to take.

“Thank you, father.”

“See that this ring always returns to me in the light of victory, my son,” Denethor said, voice an ominous rumble between warning and certain pride, before he swept out of the stables.

“Of course, Father.”

*

Faramir rode out with his brother that day, as much for inspecting Boromir’s new men as for sport and celebration, though neither spoke of their father’s second gift. If Boromir’s right hand felt weighed down on the reins, he did not show it. They spoke easily of what they always spoke of; strategies for defending the full length of the Rammas Echor, what unseasonable fruits would be dredged up and from where for Boromir’s birthday feast, whether to send patrols to guard supply trains to the outer fiefs, rumors of darkness creeping into the hall of the Horselords, Faramir’s accidental humiliation of the Chamberlain and the Captain of the First River Guard two weeks before.

Faramir would remember this part of the day. The wind held a bite of winter but blew from the south, sparing them the poisonous vapors and smell of ever-burning fire from the westerlies. Their horses stretched naturally through their paces across the Pelennor Fields still rich in autumn golds and even the midnight blue of late-blooming dae loth.

They had lunch at the fort with their backs to the ruins of Osgiliath, looking toward the white tower of home. The land held no shadows other than those cast by a low-angle sun tilting over the Ephel Dúath, and when the stars came out in the clear of night they rode back without gifts, titles, or another man’s pride between them.

*

“You had many gifts that day, rich gifts that I could not claim.” Faramir stared blankly down at the water; his men had long ago removed Boromir’s body from his sight, but the memory of finding him, touching him, seeing him at the very end of everything, remained.

“I had a dream last night, brother.” A dream, a memory. “I felt a wave a darkness, and I--” He lost the words again. There was too much between them now.

“I know you would never stopped fighting. You would not recognize Gondor as she is now, brother. I cannot protect her.”

The river kept moving past his feet, shifting over the banks and winding away, half cast in darkness. The faint sounds of leaf-over-leaf and drawn branch meant the scouts were returning to him with news of the forces gathering in the shadow, on his doorstep. Faramir stood and brushed himself free of dust and dirt. His damp clothing clung against him coldly.

“I am sorry you were not the best of us, most beloved brother.”


End file.
